


my soul knows sunlight

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fairy Tale Elements, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: The memory of this particular town is one of the softer ones, bright and full of color, the air filled with music and song and the heady aromas of spices and savory meats, of tangy fruits and desserts almost too saccharine. Blood, too, from the head of the bruxa he'd killed, but covered by the overwhelming scent of relief that started permeating the town when word spread that the creature was dead.He remembers warm sunlight and a gentle summer breeze. He remembers blue, bright and clear: blue eyes beneath a blue sky, shining with mirth, and pink lips that tasted like sweet honey, soft against his own.When Geralt returns to the town where he met a blue-eyed bard that stole his heart, he finds it much less lively than it had been a decade before, despite it being nearly Midsummer. Something haunts the fields, sucking the light and life from the land, and the people are desperate for their peace and traditions back.The distinct lack of that blue-eyed bard with a soul as warm as sunlight feels like a terrible, cruel omen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 72
Kudos: 523
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	my soul knows sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> hoo BOY this took me for-fucking-EVER to finish but here it is!!! my geraskier mini bang fic is done and ready for consumption! 
> 
> a big thanks to [max 1](http://twitter.com/ninemelodies) for putting up with my bullshit as i procrastinated my way thru this fic; to [max 2](http://twitter.com/stonedgeralt) for being a supportive listening ear and knowing the struggle of a fic that just kept growing in word count; and to [cornelius](http://twitter.com/SaintHemlock) for kicking me in the butt and telling me to work on it when i just wanted to dick around on twitter ! 
> 
> a very very special big thanks to my artist [0hillien](http://twitter.com/idkmyartwork) for being so patient with me as i procrastinated and crafting such beautiful pieces of art to go with this fic! honestly i'm blown away ♡
> 
> check out the artwork all in one place [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101979)

Despite the years he's lived, Geralt remembers each town he's ever been to, stayed in, taken a contract for. 

Some days it feels like a curse, the burdens always heavy on his shoulders, never letting him rest—weighed down by the fear and the anger and the hatred turned toward him. On those days, his shoulders ache and his body drags, and Geralt pushes on only because it's what's expected of him as a witcher: walk the Path, and keep walking. 

Other days, the memories are lighter, softer—a gentle hand on his back, food and drink offered in thanks on top of the coin—and they almost make him smile. Those days he walks with his head high and his chest free of the tight hold of guilt and regret that follows him wherever he goes. He treasures those memories, keeps them tucked close because the life of a witcher offers the chance for them so rarely. 

The memory of this particular town is one of the softer ones, bright and full of color, the air filled with music and song and the heady aromas of spices and savory meats, of tangy fruits and desserts almost too saccharine. Blood, too, from the head of the bruxa he'd killed, but covered by the overwhelming scent of  _ relief  _ that started permeating the town when word spread that the creature was dead.

He remembers warm sunlight and a gentle summer breeze. He remembers blue, bright and clear: blue eyes beneath a blue sky, shining with mirth, and pink lips that tasted like sweet honey, soft against his own. Gentle fingers around his wrist, in his hair, against his skin. 

_ 'You look like the kind of story I like to tell.'  _

_ 'Horror and tragedy?'  _

_ 'Adventure and romance.'  _

The reality before him, however, is anything but—the color is gone, the air stale and tasting of pain and death. There is no music now, no sweet smells. The streets, once full of people dancing and shouting and singing, are bare, deserted, and Geralt watches as a handful of townsfolk walk briskly, heads down, naught but hushed whispers shared, if they speak at all. 

What had been a lively place years ago looks but a shadow of what he remembers. 

With a hum, Geralt urges Roach forward, leading her into the town and toward the inn he remembers being an elegant, if simple building in the heart of the hustle and bustle. Thankfully, it's right where he thought, still standing proudly, if slightly more weathered. Roach obviously remembers the town, too, and he lets her go as she heads for the stables next to the inn. 

He approaches the stable boy, a young thing hardly ten summers old, and hands him a few coins. "Brush her down, but don't touch what's in the saddlebags," he says, and the boy nods, wide-eyed, and scurries off to comply.

His horse taken care of, Geralt heads for the inn, stepping in to a sudden hush. Not unusual, almost expected, and he just sweeps his gaze around the room before heading for the bar in the back. The few patrons there return to their quiet conversations after a brief ogle at him, and Geralt relaxes when the scrutiny leaves his shoulders. 

The barkeep looks up from wiping down a tankard when Geralt comes up before him, and Geralt sees the moment recognition fills his eyes. A smile spreads his mouth, pulling up his lips. "Geralt of Rivia, as I live an' breathe! Didn't think I'd see you again, to be honest." 

Geralt inclines his head. "Life is full of surprises that way." 

The barkeep—Arthur, he recalls—has filled out in the last decade, his boyish features sharpened with hard labor, but his eyes are the same warm brown as the young teen who'd approached a witcher and asked if he could kill the creature stealing away the people and leaving them dead in the woods. 

"You look well," Geralt says, then glances around pointedly at the somber atmosphere where before he'd known it to be loud and raucous. "Can't say the same for the town, however. It's nearly Midsummer, isn't it? I thought that was a big celebration for these lands." 

It's a jarring contrast: his memory provides an overlay full of bright chatter and singing, shouts and jests and merriment, but what his eyes see is subdued and grey, melancholy and fear infused in the air. 

The smile slips from Arthur's face and he looks back at the tankard in his hand. "Things change," he says quietly. There's bitterness in his voice, and a bone-deep exhaustion that Geralt himself can feel as if it's a tangible thing, when he adds, "Ten years is a long time, witcher." 

"True," Geralt agrees, "but not this drastically. Not on their own." He leaves the  _ What happened here?  _ unsaid, because it's the obvious follow up question, but he also doesn't want to pressure Arthur into speaking—a feeling borne of a peculiar wave of empathy washing through him. 

It reminds him of Kaer Morhen, he thinks, and how awful it had been to see it crumble from the glory it had once been. He doesn't like speaking of it—none of them do, the rare times someone cares or is interested in them and their kind enough to ask. 

The last person interested enough to ask had been nearly a decade ago, in this very town. Another soft, fond memory kept close—closer than most, if he's honest. Blue eyes and pink lips and sweet honey and sunlight. 

_ 'Do witchers celebrate Midsummer?' Elegant fingers trace his medallion lightly, feeling the way it vibrates ever so slightly from the magic in the air.  _

_ 'No.'  _

_ 'Not big on celebrations?'  _

_ 'Not big on religious superstition.'  _

_ That soft laugh rings in the air, warm breath against his cheek. 'That's right—no gods for the lawless witchers, yeah?'  _

_ 'Mm.'  _

_ Gentle hands, calloused from years of lute playing, run over his chest, dancing over his scars. They don't linger in any one place, exploring all over, wanting to learn the dips and valleys and curves of his body.  _

_ Soft lips press against his, tasting of honeyed wine, and he drinks it up like it's the only thing he needs. He feels them smile and swallows the breathy giggle his enthusiasm gets him.  _

_ 'Well, tonight, my dear, you are a gods-fearing man, and you will show your gratitude with offerings of song and dance.'  _

_ 'You think you can get me to sing and dance?'  _

_ 'Oh, I'm certainly going to try.'  _

Geralt is pulled from his thoughts by Arthur's deep sigh and the thunk of the tankard on the bar, full of ale. He pushes it toward Geralt, and Geralt accepts it. He brings it to his mouth and takes a long drink, waiting. 

Arthur places his hands on the bar. His warm eyes are hard as he looks directly into Geralt's. "About six years ago, something happened. None of us knows what, exactly. One day, all was well, people as lively as ever. The next, a lad comes running into town, going on about a monster taken up residence in the fields to the east." 

Geralt hums. "Do you know what it is?" 

"A wraith, the lad said," Arthur says. "Most of us didn't believe him, o' course. Something like that? In our town? Not possible." 

A dark, absent look takes over the barman, and he reaches for his rag, wiping down the bar in rhythmic motions to keep his hands busy while memories rush back. Geralt can only imagine the unsettling fear a human feels when faced with a wraith: beings just short of death incarnate, of shadow and terror and darkness. They bring pain and destruction, suck the soul out of their victims. An emptiness, an absence of life. 

Unnatural—but so are most monsters made by men. 

"A few of the men went out anyway," Arthur continues, quiet. "Searched high and low in the fields—nothing. Not a trace of the supposed creature." 

"None?" 

"Not until the next day." Arthur looks at him, looks through him, his gaze far away as his memory goes back to whatever day he's remembering. "It's strange that a creature full of death and darkness like that would manifest only under the noontime sun. Seems a bit backwards, if you ask me." 

A noonwraith. Geralt takes another drink of ale as he considers. Typically the spirits of those violated and killed in cold blood, left in fields to rot and tied to an anchor point by their rage and desire for vengeance. Easy enough to lay to rest. 

"Sounds like a noonwraith," he says. "Has it killed anyone?" 

"A few," Arthur says, looking away, eyes saddened. "Those that get too close to the fields are met with terrible, agonized screaming, and some don't make it back." 

"Hm." 

Geralt finishes the ale, setting the tankard on the bar when it's gone. He pushes up from his seat, armor creaking, and Arthur watches him with soft brown eyes full of hope. Geralt tastes the tension on him, the want to ask for help, the hesitance to do so. Looking around, Geralt thinks he knows why: the town isn't what it was ten years ago, gone from its modest splendor to barely hanging on by a thread—there's not enough money to hire a witcher. 

_ 'Is coin all you do it for? Not for the fame? The glory?'  _

_ 'There's no glory in what we do. We kill, we get paid, we move on. It's all it needs to be.'  _

_ Blue eyes watch him steadily, curiously. Deft fingers trail delicately over the petals of the flowers they sit in, choosing one to pick.  _

_ 'What about kindness? Do you ever do it simply because it's the right thing to do?'  _

_ 'Witchers aren't kind.' _

_ 'So that's a yes.'  _

_ 'Mm.'  _

_ A laugh. Soft pink lips against his cheek. 'Don't worry—your secret is safe with me. I won't let anyone know the big bad heartless witcher is actually a big softie who cares too much.'  _

_ 'How kind of you.'  _

_ 'Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation, would I?'  _

_ 'You'll do what pleases you, I think.'  _

_ Those deft fingers tangle in his hair, threading in another flower. 'You're right.'  _

He aches in the space where his heart is, but Geralt pushes it away. It's been ten years—those blue eyes have no doubt moved on by now. 

"You said it haunts the fields to the east?" he asks Arthur, and the relief that pours off the barman is almost tangible. 

"Aye," Arthur agrees. "Used to be wheat fields and pastures where we let the animals graze. Farmland, see." 

Geralt remembers. He'd thought, at the time, how interesting it was that a town so far out was so self-sustaining, but the earth here was rich and full of nutrients and good for growing and harvesting.  _ Blessed by the gods,  _ a warm voice whispers in his mind. 

He'd never given much thought to Midsummer, to the traditions kept and performed by those who observed it. He's seen too much hurt and anger and death to believe in gods and fate, but Geralt figures there's something to be said for the faith of humans. Foolish, perhaps, but powerful in its own way. 

Mind made up—is there really even a choice, he thinks wryly—Geralt says, "I'll take a look. If it's a noonwraith like I think, I'll have to find its bones and whatever else is anchoring it here, but I should have it taken care of in a few days." He looks at Arthur, sees the exhaustion, the tentative hope that he's offering just in being here. 

He thinks of blue eyes bright with curiosity and excitement; of deft fingers on lute strings and on his skin; of pink lips smiling beautifully and offering soft words telling him he's kind even when the world would disagree. He thinks of the soul who believes in the magic of the gods and tradition and destiny. 

Geralt says, "Tell the people to prepare for Midsummer. You will have your traditions back." 

"Thank you," Arthur says, voice thick with emotion, and his brown eyes shimmer with tears. "Thank you, witcher. We'll be in your debt." 

Geralt thinks of the kindness of this town, of the way they welcomed a witcher instead of turning him away, including him in their celebrations and offering him warmth where he normally encountered coldness, and knows he won't take whatever meager funds they have. Instead, he lets Arthur give him a key to a room for his stay, and accepts the plate of meats and fruits as well as another tankard of ale, and that's all he plans to take as payment. 

Gods, but he's gone soft in his years. 

The evening passes slowly. Geralt eats the food he was given, and he observes. The people are quiet, speaking in murmurs, a heavy weight settled over the shoulders of every man and woman and even the children. They see him, though, see his swords and his white hair and gold eyes, see the medallion that hangs around his neck, and something stirs in the air. 

The promise of relief, he thinks. The promise of an end to this misery. 

When his food is gone and the ale sits pleasantly in his gut, Geralt checks on Roach once more before heading to the room he was given. It's small but decently furnished, with a bed, a desk, a washbasin, and even a hearth. Geralt removes his armor and swords, tucking them under the bed, and cleans the grime of the road from his skin at the washbasin with the provided rag as he thinks about his plan of attack. 

He'll make his way to the indicated field in the morning and begin his search for remains. The noonwraith, as indicated in the name, won't show until the sun sits at its zenith in the sky, and he hopes to be able to dispatch it as quickly as possible. The sooner he can return this town to its former joy and ease, the better. 

As he slips into the bed, Geralt inhales a faint, barely-there whiff of lavender and chamomile, tinged with the sweetness of honey, and the memories he keeps close to his heart pour forth, filling his mind and making him ache again. 

Gods, but it's been a decade, he thinks. How does a memory have so much power over him? 

Instead of fighting it, however, Geralt lets the memory wash over him, and finds sleep in the gentle hold of an echo of tenderness. 

— 

In the morning, Geralt dresses only in his shirt and pants, strapping just his steel sword to his back, and makes his way out into the town just as the sun is cresting over the horizon. He leaves Roach in the stables and instead starts on foot to the east, towards the fields where the noonwraith is said to haunt. 

The east fields are a few miles outside of the town, and to get there he follows the river that cuts through the region. It's decently wide and deep enough to swim, and the current is a gentle, wandering thing. 

He remembers, a decade ago, during the Midsummer festival, how the townspeople had filled the river with crowns of flowers. A ritual, so to speak, for couples in love, or hoping to be in love: one would place the crown in the river, sending it off, and if it was picked up by another, they would be tied together for the rest of their lives, their destinies entwined. 

_ 'Romantic, isn't it?'  _

_ 'If you don't mind the idea of a complete stranger being your supposed love, sure.'  _

_ 'You have to ruin all the fun, don't you?'  _

_ 'I try my best.'  _

_ 'Well, how about you go pick it out of the water if you're so worried about who I might end up with, hm?'  _

_ 'That means you'd end up with me.'  _

_ 'And what would be so wrong with that?'  _

Geralt picks his way along the riverbank carefully, though the land is flat and a lack of rain means it's dry as well. The river is near motionless, and he frowns at the lack of current. Truly whatever curse this noonwraith has inadvertently brought with it is dire, indeed. 

As he approaches the field, Geralt notices something in the water near the bridge that crosses it and allows access to the grazing pastures on the other side. There's a pull somewhere in his chest, his medallion humming, and his senses are on alert, eyes scanning the surrounding area, but coming up with nothing. The sun isn't high enough to bring forth the noonwraith, and the air is still ringing with birdsong and other chittering of animals. 

It doesn't  _ feel  _ malevolent, whatever it is. He stalks closer to the river's edge, peering into the water. He blinks when he catches sight of a ring of flowers, limp and barely together anymore, but it's unmistakable: a lovers crown, made of buttercups. 

Something urges him to reach out and take it, and Geralt is helpless to resist. The poor buds droop under the weight of the water as he pulls it out, little yellow petals scattering to the ground as he holds it carefully, touching it with his fingertips; the hum of his medallion increases slightly. 

It's just like the one he'd pulled from this very river ten years ago, if a little more worn, the flowers browning slightly. He'd taken that suggestion to be the one to pick up the crown then seriously, and he still sees in his memory the way those bright blue eyes had lit up even more, the way that pink mouth had curled up in a surprised little grin, more tender than it had been all week, and something had shifted then, but he'd been too distracted by that mouth on his to think on what it could mean. 

Suddenly, a pit in his gut opens up, a strange sense of foreboding settling on his shoulders as he looks to the field where he's meant to find a noonwraith. The grasses are browned, dying, and there's a stagnant taste to the air when what little breeze there is blows through. The magic here is almost palpable now. 

Geralt shakes off the weird feeling, and carefully tucks the crown of buttercups into his shirt, unwilling to toss it away, something staying his hand. Instead, he heads to the field, stretching his senses, eyes keen and hearing sharp, and begins his search. 

The sun climbs higher in the sky, the blue it had once been now a faded sort of grey, and everything is washed of its vibrance, a muted imitation of what it should be. Geralt makes a full circuit of the field, working his way around the very edges where it turns into forest and then in towards the middle where silos are situated to hold the grain. The breeze stirs through the browned grass like a lazy hand caressing through hair, but other than that, everything is quiet, still. 

There is no sign of remains, human or otherwise, in the field. Geralt grits his teeth, his medallion never ceasing its vibrating, but nothing is around that he can determine might be what's caused this turn of luck to this town. He's starting to think it must be the work of a mage, an actual curse beset on the town by a human, and not the unfortunate side effect of a cursed beast. 

But Arthur had said they'd found a wraith, had described its appearance and effects too accurately to have lied. 

With a furrow in his brow, Geralt turns in the field again, raking his gaze over the empty grasses. The sun is nearly at its peak. If it is a noonwraith, it should be— 

_ There.  _ Before him, Geralt sees the air begin to shimmer, a mirage forming a little ways in the distance. It looks like heat waves, rippling against the backdrop of the sky, and he has to blink a few times to get his eyes to focus. A form appears, dark against the grey of the sky, until it begins solidifying into the appearance of a person. 

It's tall, Geralt sees, and as it coalesces into this plane he watches as dark hair is ruffled by the breeze, and a loose shirt—white once, perhaps, but browned now with dirt—billows around its body. It turns to him slightly, and Geralt sees the front of the shirt is stained an ugly rust color, the dry chest beneath it covered in more blood, and its throat— 

There's a gash, about an inch thick and spanning from one side of its neck to the other, still oozing dark blood. Its lips are chapped and tinged blue at the edges, and its skin is dry and cracked from the baking heat of the sun. It's just as washed of color as the land around it, the life sucked right out, and Geralt watches as the grass beneath it dries and browns even further as it starts wandering closer, its steps so smooth it seems to be floating. 

Geralt dares not to move. It hasn't noticed him yet, too far across the field. Without its remains, though, Geralt can't get rid of it yet, and his steel sword won't do the sort of damage required to vanquish it. Neither would his silver sword, really, but at least the silver would re-banish it to give him time to figure out how to deal with it. 

He must make some kind of noise, though, or move without realizing it, because suddenly the noonwraith's head whips in his direction, and its face contorts in fury, and Geralt has to cover his ears when it opens its mouth and a terrible wrenching scream pierces the quiet field before it rushes him. 

His sword is in his hand in a blink, and he sets his stance, ready to defend himself—

Blue eyes. 

Pink lips. 

Soft smile. 

Sweet honey. 

Lavender and chamomile. 

" _ Jaskier, _ " he breathes, the name falling from his lips like a prayer, like a blessing—a name he hasn't uttered aloud in nearly ten years, keeping it instead in the soft place of his memory, untainted by his life as a witcher—and he lowers his sword enough that he instead takes the brunt of the attack to his chest, and he grunts as they go to the ground. 

Sharp nails dig into his chest and the noonwraith— _ Jaskier, it's Jaskier _ —screams again, this time in his face, and Geralt manages to hold him back from biting a chunk out of his collarbone, and his heart  _ aches  _ as he looks into wild blue eyes shot through with black veins, and the stench of rot and decay hits him, souring the usually soft, sweet scent Geralt had come to know. 

"Jaskier," he grunts out, struggling to keep the noonwraith at bay, hoping desperately that maybe,  _ maybe  _ his words might register, that Jaskier isn't as lost as he seems. "Jaskier, it's  _ me. _ " 

His medallion is vibrating wildly now, the hum audible on a level he knows even normal humans would be able to hear, and it's  _ strong  _ magic that's surrounding them, so intense Geralt can taste it on his tongue. Jaskier must notice it too, because his eyes dart to it and he snarls, reaching for it, and shrieks when it burns him at the touch. 

"Jaskier, stop!" Geralt snaps, and something must go through his brain, because Jaskier suddenly stills, cradling his hand, and then he's sitting back and  _ looking  _ at Geralt, the wildness to his eyes fading, and recognition taking its place. 

In a voice as rough and cracked as his skin, hoarse with disuse, Jaskier croaks out, eyes wide and shimmering, "Geralt?" 

Relief pours through him, and Geralt slumps to the ground as the fight in him immediately leaves. On instinct, his hands go from pushing at Jaskier to traveling over his body, settling gently on his hips. "Yeah. It's me." 

Whatever strings were holding Jaskier up seem to snap and he collapses on top of Geralt, avoiding the medallion as he curls in close and buries his face in Geralt's neck. 

" _ Geralt, _ " Jaskier breathes, hands clutching Geralt's shirt tight between his fingers. "It's really you. You're here." 

"I'm here," Geralt confirms, though it wasn't a question. He wraps his arms around Jaskier, his dry skin rough, and the blood still oozing from the gash in Jaskier's neck is now staining his own shirt, but he doesn't care. "I'm here." 

They lie like that for an endless moment, Geralt cradling Jaskier to him as he wracks with dry sobs. The ache in his chest has abated, but only a little—shifted, really, into a different kind of ache, no longer from a bone deep longing, but of hurt and fury at who could have possibly done this to such a beautiful, pure soul who only wants to share his love with the world. 

Eventually, Jaskier pulls away from him, though he doesn't go far. Geralt feels something slip back into place as he looks up at those blue eyes, faded as they are, and for the first time in ten years, he feels  _ right.  _

He can't put off the words that have been crawling up the back of his throat anymore. "What happened to you, Jaskier?" he asks, rough with the emotion that's bubbling up in his chest. 

Those blue eyes slip from holding his gaze, going somewhere far away as Jaskier searches for an answer. He's trembling in Geralt's hold, and he starts shaking his head, fingers gripping Geralt's shirt tightly enough to nearly rip the fabric with his sharp nails. 

"I don't know," he finally says, and the once musical quality of his voice is gone, flat and dull instead. It's  _ wrong,  _ Geralt thinks—he should never sound anything but full of life and song. "I—I don't remember. I don't remember anything. It's all blank." 

He looks back at Geralt, expression pleading and afraid. Geralt reaches up on instinct, cradling his face, rubbing a soothing thumb over his cheek. Jaskier leans into it, and Geralt watches as a dry flake of his dead skin comes off, wincing. His dark hair feels like straw, no longer soft, and suddenly Geralt is afraid to be touching him at all. He's so  _ fragile,  _ in death: hollow and empty and so easily broken, despite the unnatural strength in his limbs when he'd attacked earlier. 

Carefully, Geralt eases Jaskier back so he can sit up, but doesn't let him go far. It's been ten years and Geralt only just got him back—even if he is a noonwraith. He's not letting him go that easily. 

"It's okay," he says, making his voice as gentle as possible. Not hard to do with Jaskier, who had been able to draw a softness out of him that he'd thought lost when he came out of the Trials. "It's okay. We'll figure this out." 

"What am I?" Jaskier asks, and if monsters could cry, Geralt thinks Jaskier would. His hand goes to his neck, sharp nails digging into the gash in his neck before Geralt can stop him. His voice goes up a pitch, nearing that screech from earlier. "Am I—am I dead?" 

"Yes," Geralt says, blunt but soft. "You're a noonwraith." 

"A noon—what's a noonwraith?"

"It's what it sounds like," Geralt says, and he winces when Jaskier gives him such a sharp look of exasperation he feels the cutting edge of it almost tangibly, though he also wants to laugh. He remembers that look. "A wraith that only appears under the noontime sun." 

"What makes it different from a—a regular wraith?" 

"Circumstances of their deaths, usually." It gets Geralt's brain slowly turning as he explains, trying to piece together what might have happened to Jaskier. "Wraiths are typically summoned and bound by a mage. Noonwraiths are more—not natural, but there's less outside magic involved." 

Looking at Jaskier, though, Geralt frowns. His gaze focuses on the sluggishly bleeding gash in his neck, the way his eyes are still so blue. "But you're also not a regular noonwraith. You're too—" Geralt makes a vague gesture towards Jaskier, who just blinks at him. "—too alive." 

Despite everything, the panic in Jaskier's eyes recedes and he rolls them. "I most certainly am  _ not. _ Look at me!" He gestures to the blood on his shirt, the way his skin is flaking and peeling, dark in places with rot. He tilts his head up pointedly as well. "I'm  _ disgusting  _ and covered in—in gods know what, and I smell like the back end of a decaying donkey, and  _ I'm dead!"  _

Geralt can't argue with it, though he'd been trying to ignore the sulfuric, soured tinge to Jaskier's usual lavender and chamomile. It hurts more than even his appearance, because he'd always smelled of  _ comfort  _ and  _ safety  _ and  _ kindness,  _ and now it's rotted, twisted unnaturally by whatever dark magic is at play. 

And it  _ is  _ magic, Geralt is sure—no normal noonwraith would act like Jaskier, able to recognize a person they once knew and  _ speak  _ to them. 

"We'll figure this out," he repeats instead, putting as much reassurance in his tone as possible. And they will— _ he will,  _ or he'll lay down his swords where he stands and let death come for him as penance for letting Jaskier down so terribly. 

He needs more information. First, he needs to find out how Jaskier—his lip curls just to think of it—was  _ killed,  _ his life torn so brutally from this earth that he's bound to it as the decaying beast now before Geralt. 

Jaskier simply presses his head against Geralt's, his rotted breath brushing over Geralt's skin in puffs. "I trust you," he says, and Geralt could not find a lie on those words if he tried. 

"Do you remember anything?" Geralt asks gently, hands skimming up Jaskier's sides on instinct, a habit formed in such a short time so long ago, and it's still just as natural as it had felt then. "Anything about what might have happened?" 

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, something he'd done countless times an age ago, in concentration or in enticement, and his gaze goes far away, his fingers trailing absently along the hem of Geralt's shirt. 

The noontime sun is strong in the sky now, its heat permeating the barely-there breeze in the field. The buzz of insects and the periodic chirp of birdsong are the only things to be heard over the slow beat of his own heart, and the stark absence of the one behind Jaskier's ribs. It makes him ache, the lack of it, the lack of evidence of life and the comfort it had brought, and Geralt misses it something fierce, wants it back and to be able to press his ear against Jaskier's chest and let it lull him into something like contentment, something like peace. 

"I remember you," Jaskier finally says, breaking the still quiet that had settled between them. His fingers pick at the buttons on Geralt's shirt, the little restless movements something familiar and just so  _ Jaskier.  _ His sharp nails are blackened and cracked. "I remember—bits and pieces of the festival, nothing solid. Dancing with you, singing to you." 

Geralt remembers it too, the soft way Jaskier had crooned to him in the room he'd been given at the inn: sweet songs shared just between them, gentler than the cheesy ballads he'd been singing during his performances at dinner each night. He'd whispered the lyrics into Geralt's skin, against his mouth, and while he can't quite recall the exact words, he remembers perfectly the way they made him feel, like Jaskier saw exactly who he was—who he  _ is _ —and was telling him  _ I accept you just as you are.  _

Not many people in his life had made him feel like that. 

He smooths a hand up Jaskier's side, moving it up to cup his sallow, sunken cheek, and Jaskier leans into it. "Anything else?" he urges, still soft. 

Jaskier's blue, blue eyes fall shut, and he shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, Geralt, there's just—just nothing there. It's all blank. There's you, and then there's nothing." 

Which means it probably happened not long after Geralt had taken his leave of the little town tucked away in the country, leaving Jaskier with naught but a soft, lingering kiss and a crown of buttercups situated upon his dark hair that he'd pulled out of the river the night before. Not even a promise to return, because Geralt refused to make promises he couldn't guarantee he'd keep. 

He'd refused to give Jaskier that kind of false hope. 

Instead of pressing Jaskier further, he leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead, lips lingering against dry skin. "Okay," he says. "It's okay." 

"I'm sorry—" 

Geralt shushes him gently. "I'll ask around the town, see if any of them might know anything. The fact you don't remember anything says it probably happened right—" He swallows the lump in his throat, "—right after I left you. I'll start with that." 

Suddenly, Jaskier's hands cup his face, and Geralt is made to look directly into those blue eyes. It unsettles something in him to see them tainted by rotten magic, black tendrils shooting through the whites, creeping down into his cheeks. 

And even still—even still Geralt thinks Jaskier is the most beautiful being he's ever seen. Still so full of light, even now. 

"I don't blame you," Jaskier says, soft but imploring. "I could never blame you for following your Path, Geralt. Please know this." 

That insidious voice inside him—the one that makes his guilt loud and hard to ignore—disagrees, keeps saying  _ It's all your fault, you should have been here, he'd be safe then  _ but Geralt makes the effort to ignore it. He won't let it spoil the soft memories he has of Jaskier. 

"I'll figure this out," he says instead. He brings a hand up to Jaskier's throat, fingers hovering over the bleeding gash. "I'll fix this." 

"I know you will," Jaskier says, and a small smile splits his lips. "With the great White Wolf on the case, I have nothing to worry about, do I?" he teases. 

Geralt simply holds him closer, leaning their heads together again. Jaskier's fingers begin carding through his hair, and it's so achingly familiar and comforting it knocks the breath from him. He ignores the sharp sourness of death in Jaskier's scent and instead focuses on the soothing hints of lavender and chamomile still present beneath it all, and lets it wash over him, centering and grounding him. 

Eventually, Geralt pulls away. The sun is still high in the sky, but it's moved farther west, and Geralt knows it's closer to late afternoon now. He's been sitting in the field with Jaskier longer than he'd realized, but it also doesn't feel like it's been long enough. 

Jaskier is beginning to fade around the edges, shimmering in and out of focus. Part of the curse: noonwraiths aren't meant to walk this plane of existence for long periods of time. As the sunlight fades, so will he, until noon tomorrow. 

Geralt watches the slight breeze bend and sway the dying, brown grasses of the field. "Midsummer is in four days." 

It pulls a smile from Jaskier. "My favorite time of year. I've always loved playing at the festival. Always so lively, Midsummer. Good crowds. And the people always enjoy a good song and dance." He's quiet for a moment, thoughtful, then, "I've missed it." 

"They haven't celebrated it since—" 

There's a pause. 

"Since I died," Jaskier quietly finishes for him. 

"Since you were  _ killed, _ " Geralt corrects, and he bites at the last word, anger and hurt welling up in him. "Since someone took you from this world." 

"Geralt—" 

He turns to look at Jaskier, feeling the fire of determination blaze within him. "I will figure out who did this," he promises, "and when I do, I will end this curse, whatever it is." He swallows thickly. "You'll see it again." 

"What?" 

"The Midsummer festival," Geralt says. "This year. You'll play your lute again, and people will sing and dance to the music you make." 

The breeze blows through, stronger than it had been, and Jaskier's form shimmers in the light. The sun moves further toward the west. 

Jaskier laughs, but it's a hollow, empty sound. "How, Geralt?" he asks, and his blue eyes are full of sadness and longing. "I'm dead." 

"Then," Geralt says decisively, "I'll just have to bring you back." 

It doesn't work that way, he knows. Things that are dead are meant to stay dead, and messing with the precarious balance of life and death never ends well for anyone involved—Jaskier is, currently, unliving proof of it, his life torn from him so suddenly and harshly that it has affected his death by holding him in an existence between: not alive, not dead, and in endless suffering. 

But there's just—there's a part of him, that soft, secret part Geralt keeps tucked away with the sweet memories that warm him like sunlight, that refuses to believe Jaskier is truly  _ gone,  _ that still has  _ hope.  _ And until the curse is broken and Geralt can put this soft, sweet sunlight soul to rest for good, like he deserves— 

Geralt will hold onto that hope. 

Jaskier chokes up another laugh, and with one last fond look, biting his lip on yet more words, he fades as the afternoon fades into evening, and Geralt is alone in the field once again. His medallion continues to vibrate with the surrounding magic, but it gentles from something insistent to something like a comforting hum. 

Until tomorrow, he thinks, and finally Geralt sheaths his sword that he'd dropped when Jaskier first attacked, his mind still lost to the curse, and turns to head back to town. 

— 

He decides to start with Arthur. An innkeep would know the goings on around town better than most, and besides, he should know about Jaskier. They'd been friends, Geralt remembers. 

"So?" Arthur asks, as Geralt slides up onto a stool at the bar. Without a word, Arthur makes up a tankard of ale for him and passes it over, waving away the few coins Geralt tries to pass him for it. "Is it a noonwraith, like we thought?" 

"Yes," Geralt says, and he looks down at his ale. "But it's—more complicated than that." 

"How so?" 

"Do you remember Jaskier?" Geralt asks instead, and Arthur's eyes light up. 

"The bard?" Arthur hums. "Aye. Lovely man. Adored by the town. He seemed to bring it to life in a way no one else could during Midsummer. I swear he had magic in his blood, that one." 

_ Magic in his blood.  _ That's a good way to describe him, Geralt thinks, because he thought the same thing at the time, and still does. The way he sang, the way he moved—everything about him was full of energy, full of life. He had a way of pulling you in with a look and a wink, moulding you any way he liked, and you were never the wiser for it. A dangerous power, some might say, but Geralt never felt anything but safe with him. 

Safe and adored, two things witchers never felt. Jaskier really was something special. 

_ Is  _ something special. 

Geralt hums, taking a swig of ale, and figures he might as well rip the bandage off quick, because every moment he wastes trying to decide what words hurt less, what the easiest way to say them might be, the more pain Jaskier is in, stuck as he is, and Geralt won't stomach that. 

"It's him," he says, and when Arthur gives him a questioning look, he clarifies, "Jaskier is the noonwraith." 

The blood drains from Arthur's face, and he nearly drops the next mug of ale he'd been pouring. "No," he says, but it's faint. Not a rebuttal, but a refusal to accept the statement. "No, it can't be. Are you sure?" 

"Believe me," Geralt says softly, "I'd give anything to be wrong." 

Arthur must hear how he means it, because his shoulders sag, and a sweeping kind of sadness settles over him. His eyes shine with tears. "We thought he'd just left," he says. "He's—he  _ was _ —a free soul, constantly going off to travel, but he'd always come back. Figured this time, some other town took hold of his heart, or he'd finally found someone to settle down with." 

Arthur looks at him, then, something strange in his eyes. "Or maybe he followed a witcher for adventure." 

It makes his heart ache in his chest once again, and Geralt is beginning to tire of the feeling, of how much he  _ feels  _ for this man with bright eyes and lively songs and a soul that shines like sunlight. Except he's not, really. He could never tire of Jaskier. 

"He'd wanted to, but I told him not to," Geralt admits. "The life I live—it's a dangerous one." 

"Can't believe that stopped him." 

And the hell of it is— 

"Neither can I." 

They share a moment of silence, listening to the evening crowd pour into the place for dinner. With no bard, it's depressing in its quietness, and Geralt imagines dinners of a decade ago in this very tavern, filled with song and liveliness. 

_ 'Do you always sit in the back corner to brood?'  _

_ 'It's easier.'  _

_ 'On who? Them, or you?'  _

_ 'Hm.'  _

_ 'That's not an answer.'  _

Geralt finishes his ale. When the tankard is empty, he pushes it back toward Arthur. "Do you know of anyone he'd been close to? Anyone who might have wanted him to come to harm?" 

Arthur shakes his head. "Everybody loved him. Maybe there were some jealous lads when he'd go off flirting with all the girls, but he'd just turn around and flirt with the lads, and they'd forget why they were upset. He had a way with his charm, like that." 

Geralt knows that part of Jaskier  _ intimately.  _ "No one comes to mind as standing out, then? No jilted lovers?" 

"I'm sorry, Geralt, really," he says. He seems to think for a moment, though, so Geralt lets him gather his thoughts. "Maja was fond of him though—she lives just up the road. Getting up in years now, but her mind is sharp as ever. She was like a mother to him. And you might talk to the seamstresses. They were closer to him than I was. They might know something." 

Well, it's more than he had to go on an hour ago, so Geralt nods his thanks. When he looks out the window, though, evening is turning to night, so he decides to pick up the trail again in the morning. He orders dinner, and eats the simple spiced meat and vegetables Arthur brings him. 

Later in his room for the night, Geralt slips into the bath Arthur had sent up to him, letting the hot water soothe his muscles and the ache in his bones. He'd found a bottle of lavender oil tucked away with the towels, and he couldn't help tipping a bit of it into the bathwater. The scent is so much like Jaskier's it soothes the ache in his heart as he inhales it and relaxes. 

_ 'What do you mean you don't use oils in your bath? This is why you reek to the high heavens, isn't it?'  _

_ 'They're usually too strong.' He watches with a single open eye as a delicate bottle is held in front of his nose. 'What.'  _

_ 'Smell this, please.'  _

_ He does, and is surprised by how little it irritates his senses. It's sweet, but soft, almost warm, and reminds him, strangely, of being wrapped in a comforting blanket in front of a warm hearth.  _

_ It also reminds him of blue eyes and pink lips that taste like sweet honey wine.  _

_ 'What is it.'  _

_ Those pink lips pull into a smile, and then that smile is pressed against his cheek.  _

_ 'That, my dear, is going into your bath.'  _

He stays in the bath until the water runs cool. He finds his clothes from the day have been laundered when he finally gets out, courtesy of the maid, Jaskier's blood from earlier washed out. He doesn't miss the blood itself, but he misses the idea of Jaskier on his clothes all the same. 

The crown of buttercups he'd pulled from the river are still on the desk where he'd put them along with his bag of potions, undisturbed. It puts him at ease. 

Once again, he curls up under the sheets of the bed and finds himself lulled to sleep by the faint scent of lavender and chamomile. 

He dreams of blue eyes and a warm smile that makes his slow heart beat just a little faster. 

— 

On his way to visit with Maja, Geralt notices a change in the atmosphere of the town: chatter that had been nonexistent or done in hushed whispers now fills the air again, and a few people even laugh at each other. He also watches as stalls are erected in the street square, less opulent than he'd seen before, but the significance of them isn't lost on him. 

They represent  _ hope,  _ and Geralt prays to gods he doesn't believe in that he'll be able to deliver it. 

Maja is, as Arthur had said, an aging woman living alone not quite a ten minute walk from the inn. Her face is lined with the evidence of years spent smiling and laughing, and he thinks her hair may have been a deep, rich brown before the silver took over. She carries herself with confidence, though, and there's something kind in her eyes that speaks to a mothering instinct. 

He can definitely see how she might've been drawn to mother Jaskier, a young wayward man who needed a bit of grounding every now and then. 

"You must be the witcher he was so fond of," she says when she answers her door. She looks him over with her keen eyes, lingering on his medallion, then his hair, then his eyes. "He spoke of nothing but you for months after you left." 

It isn't said accusingly, just a general statement, but the guilt creeps back up, and something like shame settles in his gut. Geralt ducks his head. "If it means anything," he says, "I thought of nothing but him for months after, as well." 

She smiles at that, dark eyes softening. "He's got that way about him, doesn't he." 

"Indeed." 

"Well. Come in, witcher. Ask your questions." 

She patters back into the house, and Geralt follows, his boots heavy on the wood floor. The smell of chamomile tea wafts to him from the kitchen, and while he doesn't take any when she offers, he still lets the scent calm him. 

"His favorite," she tells him, settling into an armchair with a cup of her own. "Always liked the smell of it." 

"Lavender and chamomile," Geralt says, and she raises her eyebrows at him. "He smelled of lavender and chamomile." 

They share a moment of silence, Maja sipping at her tea and Geralt letting his eyes wander her home. Tidy, filled with all sorts of knickknacks and sewing and laundry piles. Taking care of the town kids, most likely. A mother to all. 

Finally, he breaks the quiet. "You know of the noonwraith in the fields to the east?" 

Maja sets her cup on its saucer with a gentle clink. She looks into his eyes as she asks, "It's him, isn't it?" 

When Geralt nods, a soft sob leaves her, and he watches as her hands begin shaking so bad she has to set the cup aside so as not to drop it. A wave of sympathy goes through him, and Geralt steps toward her, wanting to offer comfort despite feeling awkward about it. She leans into him, and he lets her. 

"I'd hoped it wasn't," she says after she composes herself a bit, "but my gut feelings have never been wrong. The night he didn't come back—I knew something was wrong. He was a free soul, gods bless him, but he never left without telling me." 

"He didn't say anything?" 

"Not a word." She takes a deep, shuddering breath, her frame trembling. "When the boys came back, talking about a spectre in the fields, a wraith—something in me said it was him. It was my boy. My Jaskier." 

Tears streak her face, and Geralt lets her bury it in his shirt as she cries. The scent of deep heartbreak mixes with the soothing aroma of the tea, and he grits his teeth against the urge to cry out in fury and anger. 

He's only just met Maja, but she'd cared deeply for Jaskier, cares for him still even now, and he wants to hurt whomever or whatever hurt her by taking Jaskier away. 

Eventually, she pulls away, and Geralt watches her wipe her tears away with a soft kerchief embroidered with vines and delicate little yellow flowers. 

"Do you remember," he starts gently, "what he'd been doing the night he didn't come back?" 

Maja finishes her tea, not answering, and Geralt lets her have her quiet. She gets up once it's gone, heading back to the kitchen. 

"It had been about half a year since you'd gone," she says, gazing out the window above her sink. "He wasn't built for winter, that boy. Always off to find a warm body to keep him company by a hearth, or in a bed. But after you—after you he still fell into bed with whoever was willing, but he didn't stay for the night or the week like he might have before. He'd come home instead. Back to the room at the inn, or here." 

She takes a breath, composing her thoughts. 

"There were no names on his tongue but yours, witcher. All his songs were for you. I'd have called it infatuation, but it was—it was more than that. Whatever bond you two forged that week, whatever the gods' blessings for you were, my boy was in love with you." 

Hearing it said aloud makes Geralt swallow thickly, his slow beating heart pounding loud in his ears. He'd wondered, on the road away from the town, when it was just him and Roach beneath the stars, if that's what he felt for the bard he'd met and spent a week of intimacy with—not just in his bed, but in his arms as they laid in fields of flowers, finding forms in the clouds as Jaskier formed crowns from the blooms, and danced at the festival. 

_ My boy was in love with you.  _ Geralt wants, desperately, to believe a being like him might deserve a love like Jaskier's. 

"Nothing stood out as suspicious?" he asks, after a long, quiet moment. As much as he wants her to continue denying anyone holding ill intentions toward Jaskier,  _ nothing  _ is not helping him figure this out. 

Maja's brow furrows a bit as she turns back to him. "There was...a man," she starts slowly. "Come to town around two summers before you. Not uncommon, really. Took a shine to Jaskier right off, of course. Started courting him like a right proper ponce." 

Geralt snorts, unable to help himself. Despite his flair for finery and shiny things, Jaskier had always emphatically turned his nose up at the idea of being a kept man in a court or a noble's house. A free spirit, through and through, and nothing would hold him where he didn't want to stay—even Geralt could tell that much. 

"Jaskier indulged him for a bit," Maja continues. "Liked the attention for a while, but you know how he was. Not much adventure or stories in an uptight merchant used to the cities, is there?" 

"Is he still here?" 

"I didn't bother with him," she says, lip curling in disdain. "Took care to avoid him as best I could. Something about him—it didn't sit right in my bones. I think Jaskier could tell too; I swear that boy could smell danger a mile off." 

_ 'You smell of death and destiny. Of heroics and heartbreak. A truly adventurous and exciting story! How could I resist?'  _

_ He enjoys the feeling of those gentle fingers in his hair, combing it out.  _

_ Still, though. 'Some people would say that's a warning to stay away.'  _

_ 'Some people are wrong.'  _

Geralt hums. "Do you know his name? Where he lives?" 

"Can't say for sure," she says, and there's a hint of apology in her voice. "Towards the outside of town, I think. We don't see him much outside of market days." 

Geralt files the information away and inclines his head. "Thank you. That's more than I had to go on yesterday." 

"Find who did this," Maja says fiercely, fire in her eyes. "Find them and make them pay for what they did to my boy, witcher." 

The image of Jaskier as he was in the field yesterday—a hollow shell of himself, rotted away and drained of his usual vibrance—fills his mind, and he swears it on his life. 

Before she sees him out, Maja disappears into a room adjacent to the kitchen, coming back out with something in her hands: a lute, he sees, dark wood carved with intricate detailing, filigree and runes that Geralt knows is a quote in Elder. It's polished to a shine, gleaming in the morning sunlight spilling in from the windows, and very, very familiar. 

_ '—and the Academy offered a course in Elder that year, so of course I took it. But anyway—'  _

_ 'You're telling me you've met Filavandrel, king of the Elves himself, in the flesh?'  _

_ Deft fingers continue to pluck chords from the Elven-make lute, the quality of sound admittedly much richer than any man made instrument he's ever heard. Almost magical, really, enchanting and haunting in turns depending on its player's mood.  _

_ 'Oh, don't sound so surprised. What kind of bard would I be if all I did was play courts and taverns? I've traveled!'  _

_ 'All the way to the Edge of the World, it seems.'  _

_ That lively, full laugh fills his chest with a strange kind of warmth and he feels content as a quick riff is played.  _

_ 'Filavandrel is lovely, by the way. As is Toruviel—after some initial hostility, admittedly deserved, we got along swimmingly, and she actually taught me much of what I know now as a renowned master bard.'  _

_ A gentle quiet settles around them, thoughtful and calm.  _

_ 'I don't think I'd be what I am today without them.'  _

_ 'Hm.'  _

_ Blue eyes turn to look at him, sparkling with fondness and curiosity.  _

_ 'What about you, witcher? What are some of your great adventures?'  _

_ 'There was this one time I had to gut a selkiemore from the inside—' _

_ 'No! Nope—I've heard enough already!'  _

_ The laugh it pulls from him is the deepest he's laughed in a long time.  _

Maja holds the lute out to him, and Geralt, after a moment, takes it from her hands. It feels fragile in his grip, like he might break it if he holds it wrong, though he knows it won't. A rush of feeling—of  _ warmth _ and  _ hurt _ and  _ hope _ —goes through him, and he cradles the instrument to his chest like it's the most precious thing he's ever been given. 

It is, in a way. 

"He'd want you to keep it," she says softly. "He poured his soul into that lute, and if nothing else, maybe it'll bring you a bit of peace to have a part of him with you wherever your Path takes you." 

_ He's always with me,  _ Geralt doesn't say, but he thinks she hears it regardless, if the knowing shimmer in her eyes is any indication. 

"Thank you," he says instead, and he's not quite surprised when Maja pulls him into her arms and hugs him tight. 

"Thank  _ you,  _ witcher." She pulls back and cups his cheek in one weathered hand. "Help our boy find peace." 

It's one promise he knows he'll do all he can to keep. 

He leaves Maja to mourn for Jaskier in a way that will finally, finally let her begin to heal properly, though he still holds onto the hope that he'll be able to let her see her wayward bard in the flesh again, happy and full of life— _ alive.  _ It's the least she deserves. 

The streets have filled more since their visit, and Geralt takes a moment to watch the townsfolk move about, heading to work and doing chores. The atmosphere is much lighter, a bit of color bleeding back in with the hope. He's never been an optimist, but he hopes to see it as vibrant as it once was, as it still is in the soft places of his memory. 

As the sun rises, Geralt looks to the east and knows he'll be back out in the fields to see Jaskier again. There isn't much he can do without a body or anchor point, or even without knowing exactly what kind of curse has bound his soul to the earth, but the urge to see those blue eyes again, to feel Jaskier in his arms drives him forward. 

Taking Arthur's advice once more, Geralt finds the seamstresses he'd mentioned were close to Jaskier when he was alive. They're a mother and daughter, fair-haired and willowy, and their hands are calloused and scarred. Both of them keep to their work as he asks about the merchant who'd taken an interest in Jaskier. 

The daughter, Bláth, looks up only briefly, before her eyes are back on the fabric in her hands. "Came in from Cidaris," she says. "Kind of stuck up, but so are most people around there, it seems." 

"Don't be rude," Siún, her mother, chides. "If it weren't for Kamil, we wouldn't have food to eat anymore." 

"Since the fields have died," Geralt says, and Siún inclines her head. 

"We were a prosperous little town," she says, brushing hair from her face. She looks at him with piercing eyes, the color of storm clouds. "You remember." 

"I do." 

"When the wraith came, everything died—the fields, the pastures." She pauses, and her eyes are sad as she gazes off into the distance. Bláth is quiet, biting her bottom lip. "The life of this town passed away. Now, we rely on Kamil and what goods he brings in to sustain us, because we can't sustain ourselves." 

"Doesn't mean he isn't an ass," Bláth mutters, and Siún clicks her tongue. 

"Maja mentioned he'd taken an interest in the bard that was here around Midsummer every year," Geralt says, and he tries to sound as unaffected about it as possible, out of habit. "Went by the name of Jaskier." 

Bláth looks up at him at that, eyes wide. "You're  _ that  _ witcher, aren't you? The one he never stopped talking about?" 

"Unless there was another witcher that came through." Geralt shrugs and crosses his arms, pretending at nonchalance despite the way a familiar warm feeling settles in his chest—the same one that fills him when blue eyes look at him like he's worth everything and pink lips smile and sing his praises like he's deserving of that sort of kindness. 

_ Oh, Jaskier.  _

Bláth isn't fooled for a moment, he can tell, but she merely purses her lips and looks back at her work. She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes, Kamil was interested in Jaskier. Who wasn't? He was the most charming man I've ever known." 

"He was a rapscallion," Siún says hotly, snapping out the fabric she's working on to straighten it. Her voice gentles when she continues, "But he was a kind man, too. Our town is worse off for his loss." 

There is a moment of silence that falls over them, and Geralt finds himself unwilling to break it. He feels the almost negligible weight of the lute over his shoulder like heavy lead, aware of it the way he's aware of the bustle of people in the street, of the birds flying overhead outside, of half-caught snatches of conversation. 

Of the deafening silence where a voice should be singing and laughing and charming the people around its owner into loving him. 

Eventually, though, the need to find out the answer to this mystery is too strong to keep quiet anymore. 

"I was told Jaskier started rebuffing the merchant's interest," Geralt says, eyes on the townsfolk passing by the window. He looks back at the seamstresses. "How did he take that?" 

"Are you asking if Kamil did something to Jaskier?" Bláth asks, eyes wide. 

"Jaskier is the wraith," he says, short. Twin inhales of shock meet his statement. "Wraiths are dead. I'm trying to find out who killed him so I can—I can—" 

The words elude him, though he thinks he's looking for something along the lines of  _ so I can lay him to rest, bring him peace.  _ He also wants to say  _ so I can bring him back to life—to me  _ but he doesn't want to give them false hope. 

Geralt doesn't realize how lost in his own thoughts he is until a hand, gentle, hesitant, is laid on his arm, and he looks into Siún's eyes. Her expression is one of sympathy, an echo of loss and heartache in her gaze. 

"I don't know if Kamil harbored ill feelings toward Jaskier after being turned down," she says softly. "As far as I know, he took it with grace and stopped his advances. But people dress themselves in finery to hide the hideous beneath all too often. I should know." 

Geralt takes a moment to squash the sudden surge of anger within him that the implication gives him. "Where is he." 

"Toussaint," she says. "Or on his way back by now, probably. He should be back tomorrow morning." 

"Where does he live?" 

Bláth tosses her head. "A little ways outside town, to the southeast. There's a mill out that way, where the forest starts." 

Geralt gives them his thanks and leaves them to their work, pausing in the road to determine his next course of action. Afternoon approaches, the sun climbing higher in the sky, and he feels a pull toward the east—back to the fields, back to Jaskier. 

The merchant can wait, he decides, and heads instead for the stables next to the inn. 

Roach greets him with a soft huff and pushes her head against his chest. He smiles at her, murmuring soft nonsense as he strokes her neck and gives her a bit of affection. She's enjoyed her day of rest, but he can tell she's eager to stretch her legs, to feel what breeze there is around her, as much a free and wandering spirit as someone else he holds dear. 

"Do you remember Jaskier, girl?" he asks softly, and she whickers at him, dipping her head to lip at his hands. "Yeah, he's around. We're going to go see him. I think he's missed you, too." 

He saddles her up with efficient movements, leading her out so he can mount her. With a nudge, he starts her off towards the fields where Jaskier is. He lets her set her own pace, and, for a while, Geralt lets his mind wander through his memories, letting them wash over him and soothe the ache in his chest. 

_ 'Don't touch Roach.'  _

_ There's a snort, and he watches as his command is wholly ignored. Roach doesn't seem to mind, pushing her head into the touch.  _

_ 'Roach is the best girl and deserves to be shown love, don't you, girl?'  _

_ Fingers weave small flowers into her mane, braiding it as they go. He wishes those fingers were in his own hair.  _

_ Blue eyes look up at him, knowing and fond.  _

_ 'Don't worry, darling. There's enough flowers for you, too.'  _

It amazes him still to think about just how much he let Jaskier get away with, how close he let the bard with his sunlight soul and blue eyes come to his own battered and worn heart. For most of his life, Geralt has known the pain of rejection and hatred because of what he is, the sharp twist in his gut of guilt and anger when he's blamed for things out of his control. 

And then there was Jaskier, soft and gentle in touch and words, offering him acceptance and kindness and wanting nothing from him in return but to know him,  _ truly  _ know him. 

And Geralt  _ wanted  _ him to know, he realizes. He'd wanted to be known, and Jaskier had been willing to learn. 

Geralt doesn't believe in Destiny, but—

But. 

The field is still as dead as it was yesterday when he and Roach finally get there. The sun is high and burning, the day hot. Birds chirp, and Geralt feels the hum of magic in the air again, medallion vibrating against his chest. 

He dismounts Roach and gives her another rub, eyes wandering the expanse of the field. There's no figure in the distance yet, but his skin tingles and there's a buzz in his ears, and he knows Jaskier is close. 

It takes only another handful of minutes for the space before him to shimmer, like watching a mirage, and his slow heart beats heavy behind his ribs as that spectral form begins to appear. The magic hums more intensely, and even Roach begins to stamp in place in nervousness, though she calms when he places a hand on her. 

"It's just Jaskier," he murmurs to her, and he hates the way the words taste on his tongue, because it  _ shouldn't  _ be Jaskier—Jaskier shouldn't be a noonwraith, shouldn't be dead. 

It happens as it did the day before: Jaskier wanders the field for a moment, movements so smooth it's as if he's floating, before he notices Geralt. He screeches, and Geralt still flinches at the sound, high-pitched and grating, before he rushes in an attack. 

Roach rears up, whinnying in warning, and Geralt is between her and Jaskier, hands out in front of him. His swords are back at the inn with the rest of his things, unneeded. 

"Jaskier, it's me," he says, pleads, and feels relief fill his chest when recognition comes to those blue eyes again, quicker than the day before, and Jaskier blinks at him. 

"Geralt," he says, dull voice thick with emotion, with  _ relief,  _ and Geralt welcomes him into his arms and holds him close. 

Jaskier remembers the day before, after some moments, and that, too, is a relief. Geralt sits in the field and Jaskier sits beside him, fingers combing through his hair, and once again Geralt feels complete. 

After some initial wariness, even Roach is butting her head against Jaskier, and the laugh it pulls from him, though scratchy and weak, is music to his ears. He reaches up to stroke her nose, careful of his sharp nails. 

"Oh, I've missed you, sweet girl," Jaskier coos at her, and he looks  _ happy.  _ "Did you miss me, too?" 

"She did," Geralt says, watching them with warm fondness filling his limbs. "Kept giving me looks when I didn't give her treats where she expected them." 

"Are you saying I spoiled her?" 

"Yes." 

"Well," Jaskier grins at him, and the way his lips split across his face in a gruesome facsimile of the warm smile Geralt once knew unsettles him deep down, though he pushes those feelings away. This is  _ Jaskier.  _ "She deserves to be spoiled." 

Geralt hums in agreement and can't help but lean into him, resting their heads together. Rot and decay are still the strongest scents on Jaskier, but he ignores them. 

It's been  _ so long.  _

They sit in the field for a long time, speaking quietly and just enjoying the other's presence. The sun creeps across the sky slowly, and with every passing moment, Geralt wonders how much longer he has with Jaskier before he's gone again until the next day. 

How much longer he has with him at all, before he's gone again for good. 

"There you go again," Jaskier says, voice bringing Geralt out of his thoughts. He cups a hand around Geralt's face and Geralt leans into the touch. "Where are you off to, my dear?" 

"I should have let you come with me," Geralt says, the words pouring out of him, crawling up his throat and spilling into the space between them. Jaskier blinks at him, eyes wide. 

"What?" 

"I should have taken you with me," he repeats. Gently, like he might break him, Geralt reaches up to trail a finger over Jaskier's cheek, tracing the veins of dark magic under his dead skin. "Maybe then you'd still be alive." 

Jaskier takes his hand, his own curling around Geralt's fingers, pressing it against his face. "You left me because you thought it was too dangerous," he says with a scoff, but his eyes are kind. "There was no way for you to know." 

"But I—"

"There was no way to know," Jaskier says again, slowly, enunciating the words. "That's how life works, dear heart. We never know when our end will come." 

"I could have protected you," Geralt says, though he isn't sure what his point is. Jaskier is right: Geralt left him because he thought it'd be safer for him than on the road by a witcher's side. 

But he couldn't have stayed, either, and they both know it. 

"By what? Staying?" Jaskier asks, as if he can read Geralt's mind, and he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to Geralt's palm. "No, you couldn't. And I wouldn't have asked you to, even if I'd known." 

"I'm sorry," he says anyway, because he is—he's sorry this has happened, that he hadn't been there for Jaskier, that he let the fear of  _ what if  _ tear them apart. 

"It's not your fault," Jaskier says simply, sweetly. "You're here now, and you're going to fix it. That's all I need." 

They fall into quiet again, and Geralt watches Jaskier's hands sift through the dead grass around them, as if seeking flowers to pick. Always in motion, he thinks, never still. 

Just like a witcher walking his Path. 

Maybe Jaskier is meant for him. Maybe it's Destiny. 

Geralt's gaze travels up to his face, his tainted blue eyes watching the distance, the breeze tousling his hair. It's as stiff as he's ever seen it, the rich brown faded and sunbleached. He remembers his own hands tangled in it, soft between his fingers. 

He remembers the crown of buttercups tucked into his shirt, a last-minute decision he made this morning before going to talk to Maja. He pulls it out, holding it carefully, the limp and ragged blooms a match to the noonwraith at his side. 

It catches Jaskier's eye and he stares at it for a long moment before he looks up at Geralt, wide-eyed with surprise and something that looks a bit like hope. 

"Where did you find that?" 

"In the river," Geralt answers, Jaskier's fingers hovering over the crown as if afraid to touch it. "By the bridge." 

Again, if creatures could cry, Geralt thinks Jaskier's eyes would be full of tears. It softens something in him, makes him reach out and cup Jaskier's face in his hand. Jaskier leans into it, drawing a shuddering breath. 

With care he shows for few things, Geralt brings the crown up and places it gently, reverently, on Jaskier's head, the same as he'd done all those years ago when this same blue-eyed, sunlight soul of a bard had teased him about tying their destinies together. 

_ What would be so wrong with that?  _

Nothing, he finds. Nothing would be wrong with it at all. 

He pulls his hand away, and Jaskier reaches up to touch the small buttercups, lips curling up at the corners. His eyes are so very blue, glowing with an almost unnatural inner light, an inner magic that makes them hypnotic to stare into. Geralt would happily be lost in their depths. 

"This is the second time you've given me back my crown," Jaskier says, playful. "One might think you have intentions." 

"I do," Geralt says, and Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath. He leans their heads together again, seeking out the familiar lavender and chamomile scent of his bard beneath the death. "I intend to bring you what peace and happiness I can." 

"You don't make promises you can't keep," Jaskier breathes against him, trembling. Reminding Geralt of his own words, reaffirming to himself that Geralt  _ will  _ keep this one. 

He's beginning to fade around the edges, his time with Geralt coming to an end for the day. Geralt doesn't want him to go, wants to keep him in his arms as long as possible. Forever, maybe. 

"I've got a lead," he says, and Jaskier makes an inquisitive noise. "Tomorrow. I'll have answers. Whatever curse this is, I'll end it." 

"Tomorrow, then," Jaskier agrees, and between one blink and the next, he's gone, and Geralt catches the lover's crown in his hand. 

Roach snuffs from a few meters away, eyes big and sad as she looks at Geralt, and he holds the crown to his chest. 

"Yeah," he says to her, "I miss him already, too." 

Their trip back into town is just as quiet as the trip to the fields, but Geralt doesn't let his mind wander through memories this time. Instead, he thinks of the little bit of information he's gotten from Maja and the seamstresses about the merchant, and thinks of investigating around his home before returning to the inn. 

It couldn't hurt to take a look. Geralt takes Roach back to the stable, leaving her once again with the stable boy to brush her down. The boy is much less wary this time, even offering him a smile, and Geralt thinks, oddly, of Arthur, who had smiled at him similarly as a boy the first time he'd come through this little town. 

Roach settled, Geralt heads out toward the southeast part of town, passing through the main market street and observing the little bit of late afternoon foot traffic. Stall vendors sell their wares and children play in the street. 

Colorful banners are hung between the roofs of houses, a little bit of brightness in the gloom. They seem a little more worn than he remembers, but they give a little bit of life back to air. 

Despite having no specific location, Geralt finds the home of the merchant with ease. As he nears, he can taste the tang of magic in the air, and his skin buzzes with it, his medallion humming over his breast. It makes him pause, stretching his senses, picking at the force he feels brushing against him. It's familiar, in a way, and it makes his lip curl, the urge to hit something rushing through his veins. 

A fucking mage. 

It's unrefined, nothing like the honed craft of the sorceresses of Aretuza he's met, and he thinks the merchant—the mage—never Ascended from his training, if he'd had any. 

"Fuck," he says, with feeling. 

It  _ is  _ a curse, then. A curse that twisted a kind and cheerful soul into something wretched, something painful, and has caused more suffering than most likely intended, and certainly more than was deserved. 

But, he thinks, all curses can be broken. He won't be able to do anything without confronting the mage, but for the first time since realizing Jaskier is the noonwraith haunting this town, he feels like there's  _ something  _ he can do to fix this. 

Geralt returns to the inn and takes the dinner provided by Arthur to his room, wanting solitude and peace. Jaskier's lute rests by his bed in its case, and he sets the lover's crown with his bags. His fingers linger on it for a moment, and the thought of it as a small charm of luck makes him smile. 

In his dreams, Geralt sees Jaskier as he had been: alive and bursting with vibrancy and warmth. He holds him close, lets that warmth fill his own chest, and tastes sweet honey wine on pink lips when Jaskier kisses him. 

When he pulls away, the vibrancy has faded, and twisted magic blackens those bright blue eyes, Jaskier's skin gone grey and dead. The noonwraith stands before him in place of his bard. 

Jaskier opens his mouth and it splits his face almost in two, an ear-splitting screech erupting from him, and Geralt feels tears well up in his eyes as he looks down and sees his silver sword between Jaskier's ribs. 

Geralt wrenches awake, breathing heavily. His heart aches in its home behind his ribs. 

He doesn't get back to sleep for a long time. 

— 

There are as many people as Geralt has seen in the tavern when he comes down in the morning, a buzz of excitement making the air tingle with a crackle of magic. Not the kind of chaos controlled by mages, but the gentle and comforting presence of belief made manifest—of true, complete faith. 

This is the power of Midsummer, he thinks. He'd tasted it before, passing through this town, felt its warm embrace as these people celebrated another year of life and honored those who had passed away. 

It was strange then, but only because his own life has been full of the painful kind of death that leaves torn edges around tender hearts, that dulls the soul and makes it numb to the hurt and the ache in order to survive. Life for a witcher means anger and hurt and death, and Geralt hadn't understood how anyone might find beauty in that. 

Now, he thinks he still might not understand, but he does see the beauty, the way this town has brightened in just a few days all because they were given  _ hope.  _

Geralt still doesn't believe in whatever gods might exist, but he knows the power this kind of magic can have, and he holds onto it as he approaches Arthur setting up behind the bar. 

"Is your merchant back?" he asks, and Arthur looks up at him. 

"Kamil? Just got back not an hour ago, I think. He's at home now, but he'll be at market tomorrow afternoon." 

Geralt hums and turns on his heel, pausing when Arthur calls after him, "He doesn't usually carry weapons or potion ingredients. We don't have much use for those things here." 

"I'm not after him for his wares," Geralt says, and heads out even as Arthur calls after him again. 

It's already late afternoon; his nightmares had kept him awake in the night, and Geralt had only managed to finally fall into a slightly fitful sleep as the dawn broke. He tries to cast them from his mind, holding instead to the soft moments of yesterday and the days in his memories, but it's difficult not to see Jaskier's twisted expression when he closes his eyes just to blink. 

He has to end this. He  _ has  _ to. 

There's a distinct difference in the magic surrounding the mage's home—like static and sparks, a sour tang that makes Geralt's lip curl. It sends shocks over his skin, unpleasant pricks of dulled pain as he nears the opulent little house. Not grand in size, but certainly in better condition than most of the surrounding homes. 

In the front of it is a garden, and in the garden is a man sitting on the bench surrounded by colorful blooming plants reading a book. His hair is dark and long, braided over his shoulder, and his eyes are a startlingly bright green when he looks up at Geralt's approach. 

There's a faint familiarity to him, like a face you see in a crowd that you recognize but don't know. Geralt has seen him before, he thinks, maybe at the inn while Jaskier performed, as enraptured with the bard as everyone was. Perhaps at the festival, while Jaskier took his hands and pulled him in to dance by the bonfire that was lit when night fell in earnest. 

He does not remember Kamil, but it is obvious in the way those eyes darken and his mouth twists, his relaxed posture immediately tensing, that Kamil remembers him with crystal clarity. 

"Witcher," Kamil mutters, voice deep and ringing with displeasure and barely concealed hatred. 

Geralt is used to it. 

"Mage," Geralt answers, and by the lack of surprise, the lack of any reaction at all, he thinks Kamil has known this would happen for a while. 

He plants himself before the mage, arms crossed, swords sheathed at his back, and leans into every ounce of intimidation and threat he carries around him like a cloak. He is satisfied when those green eyes flicker with uncertainty and not a little bit of nervousness, the cloying sage and basil scent of him souring slightly with fear. 

"What did you do to him." He isn't asking. 

For his part, Kamil pretends at his calm well, closing his book gently and placing it aside. He does not rise from his seat, merely leans back and looks Geralt in the eye. 

"I came to this town almost twelve years ago," Kamil says. "This little backwater town, not even marked on a map. But it was surprisingly prosperous, and I saw a chance to make a living here, even if the people are as backwater as their town. They're simple people who don't understand high society and the finer things in life. Except for him." 

Geralt snorts and can't help rolling his eyes. "Spare me your monologue. We both know nothing you say will change my opinion of you." 

Kamil's eyes blaze. "I don't know what he ever saw in you," he seethes. "I offered him all he could want: comfort, fame. A steady life. And he chose you instead—a witcher, a monster. A beast. Good for nothing but killing creatures and innocents alike." 

"I'm not the one who turned a good soul into a noonwraith out of jealousy," Geralt says, biting down on his anger. 

"An unfortunate side effect of the curse," Kamil says dismissively, though he looks contrite. "It wasn't meant to be so...horrific. Jaskier was—he was beautiful. That's what drew me to him. He should be nothing less. But it wasn't something I had control over." 

"Casting curses you can't control?" Geralt scoffs. The urge to take his sword and end this miserable man's life surges in him and he clenches his fist so hard he thinks he'd bleed if not for his gloves. "What do they teach in those mage schools these days?" 

"Chaos does what it wants," Kamil says. "We put intent behind it, but it manifests in a way it deems most appropriate to carry out those intentions. As soon as I cast it, what it did was out of my hands." 

"What was it," Geralt demands. 

Kamil sneers, and Geralt only just manages to refrain from punching it from his face. "Like you pointed out, I was jealous. It was borne of that jealousy. I wanted him to hurt the way I was hurt watching him choose you over me, and I wanted it to linger like it did for me." 

"You wanted him dead." 

Kamil is quiet before he says, softly, "Maybe." 

Geralt is on him in a beat of his slow heart, hand on his throat and pushing him back against the bench. Kamil struggles, eyes wide and fear pouring from him in sick, noxious waves. 

He doesn't make a move to use magic or cast a spell to defend himself, and Geralt, at the back of his mind, thinks it's more because he's a novice than out of any sense that he deserves Geralt's fury. 

"This town needs me," Kamil spits out, struggling for breath. "The wraith killed everything else. Without me, they'll die!" 

Geralt holds him there a moment longer, enjoying the vindictive satisfaction of watching such a pathetic man at his mercy, before he releases the mage and steps back. Kamil coughs, rubbing at his neck and glaring up at Geralt from beneath his hair. 

"How do I break the curse?" he demands, and Kamil lets out a humorless laugh. 

"Your guess is as good as mine, witcher," he says, unconcerned. "Might be an antidote. Might be true love's kiss. Might not be anything you can do. I didn't trouble myself to find out." 

"Where is his body," Geralt asks, but it doesn't come out a question. His body is thrumming, demanding blood be spilled in vengeance, and it takes every ounce of his control to resist it. 

Kamil spits at his feet and then stands, straightening his shirt. He turns his nose up and it would probably be more effective to look down if he weren't half a head shorter than Geralt. 

"I dumped it in the river," he says, like he's proud of it. Like he's won some game they're playing. "But that was ten years ago. There's no telling where it is now." 

"Then you best pray I find it," Geralt says lowly, and with that he turns and leaves Kamil standing in his garden with his life, but only just. 

The river is a long and winding thing, and Geralt wonders where to start. He hadn't seen a body in it as he'd followed it to the fields a couple days ago, but it stretches far beyond the town in both directions. Too much area to cover by himself, and Midsummer is tomorrow. 

But he has to find Jaskier's body. It's not an option. 

He recalls mention of a mill where the river starts in the town, and after a bit of wandering the paths between homes, he comes across a decrepit building at the edge of the town, nestled into the trees where the forest begins. That it hasn't seen any use in years is obvious, and as he nears, the sharp tang of chaos hits his tongue, and he knows he's on the right trail. 

Evening settles over the town as Geralt searches the mill and its surrounding land. Nothing but critters that scatter when he disrupts their homes are found, and he curses to himself. He stands next to the edge of the river cutting between the land, watching as the water flows slowly toward the east, wondering what to do. 

_ I dumped it in the river.  _ Geralt looks out to the east, where the grain fields and pastures are, where Jaskier remains as a haunting spectre. The current isn't strong now, but it hasn't always been so slow. It had been quite strong, a decade ago. 

A body would have been carried a fair distance. 

It's as if a singular focus takes over him, and Geralt begins following the river out towards the fields. He keeps his eyes on the water, searching out any odd shape that might be what he's looking for. His pace starts slow, then quickens until Geralt is nearly running along the bank, a strange sense of urgency pushing him along. 

_ Please,  _ he thinks,  _ please be here.  _

When he gets to the bridge that connects the grain field to the pasture across from it, he pauses. It's late evening, and the field is empty. No haunting spectre, no shimmering figure. The river starts to curve, twisting to the north, and he debates which side he should be on: the field, or the pasture. 

On impulse, Geralt crosses the bridge to the pasture, the grasses slightly greener than the field. Small patches of wildflowers dot the expanse of it, struggling to grow in a dying land. He continues down the bank, traveling farther and farther from the field where Jaskier appears, eyes searching the darkening waters for something, anything— 

_ There.  _

Washed up against the bank, caught between a small pile of rocks, is a half-submerged form, and Geralt makes out a pale arm and dark hair with what little evening light is left. 

His feet carry him down the bank, and he nearly trips as he steps into the shallow part of the water. It's cold for Midsummer, chilled by the hanging residue of the curse surrounding the form. He reaches out and he doesn't realize his hand is shaking until he's pulling at waterlogged clothing and finally,  _ finally  _ coming face to face with— 

"Jaskier," he rasps, and if he couldn't hear the blood rushing in his ears, he'd think his slow heart had stopped completely. 

It  _ is  _ Jaskier. His skin is pale, bled of all warmth and color in death, and ice cold to the touch as Geralt hauls him out of the river. His dark hair is inky black in the dying light of the evening, dripping with water, and there's a long gash across his throat, dried blood staining his shirt. 

Despite the fact he's spent ten years in the river, his body is as trim as ever, unbloated by the water, and Geralt thinks that must be the work of the curse. If not for his deathly pale pallor and ice cold temperature, he might be mistaken to be asleep. 

He carries Jaskier back toward the pasture, limbs feeling heavy and weak under the weight of emotion filling his chest. He stumbles as he reaches the bridge back to the grain field, holding tight to the body in his arms as they go to the ground. His breath comes ragged and harsh, and only now does he realize he's crying, vision blurred and warm tracks of tears on his face. 

He presses his forehead to Jaskier's, curling over the still body in his arms. "Please," he begs, "please come back to me." 

His fingers tangle in dark strands of hair, and Geralt brushes it from Jaskier's face, caressing gently down the side of his cold cheek to his blue-tinged lips. He's so  _ still,  _ so impossibly, terribly still, and despite how hard he fights it, the thought that Geralt might never get Jaskier back, that this might be the last he ever sees him, terrifies him to the core. 

Witchers aren't meant to feel fear, but in this moment, Geralt is  _ scared.  _

He doesn't know how to break this curse. Curses like these are fickle things, created on a whim and shaped by chaos. Any number of things could be the thing to break them, like Kamil had said—if a specific cure isn't worked into them, there's no telling what might end them. 

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, breathing it against cold skin. "I'm sorry, Jaskier. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix this. I'm going to break my promise." 

Jaskier doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. He gives no indication that he hears Geralt at all. He is cold and still and silent and dead. 

If Geralt doesn't focus on the unnatural stillness of him, the iciness of his skin, he can think of him as asleep, a beautiful, enchanting prince in deep slumber, and the thought makes him laugh brokenly. 

_ 'I've always wanted to wake a sleeping princess with true love's kiss.'  _

_ 'True love's kiss is a myth.'  _

_ 'Nonsense! Love is the most powerful force in the world. Why do you think it's a myth?'  _

_ 'Waking someone with a kiss? From a curse? Do you hear yourself?'  _

_ 'You just lack any semblance of a romantic bone in your body.'  _

_ 'It's not about being a romantic.'  _

_ 'What is it about, then?'  _

_ 'Mm.'  _

_ 'Oh, I see.'  _

_ 'What do you see?'  _

_ Soft fingers tilt his chin up, and he looks into blue eyes that see too much, that see right to the core of him.  _

_ 'You are worthy of love,' Jaskier says.  _

_ But am I worthy of yours?  _

"I want to be," he murmurs against Jaskier's cheek. "I want to be worthy of your love. You put so much faith in me. It scares me, Jas. I don't want to let you down, but I'm afraid I already have." 

His eyes fall to Jaskier's mouth. 

The hum of magic that's been present in this field for days now, that keeps his medallion vibrating against his chest in a constant buzz, increases, and the gentle breeze around them suddenly stills. The sounds of creature nightlife ceases, and everything goes unsettlingly silent. 

The temperature drops so suddenly it sends a shiver up Geralt's spine, his skin prickling. He looks up, eyes scanning the area around himself and Jaskier, but nothing emerges, nothing is out of place. 

And then— 

There's a terrible screech, and Geralt has his sword drawn as he turns to face the field. His eyes go wide. 

"No," he breathes. 

Across the bridge, manifesting in a flickering, ghostly form, Jaskier as the noonwraith howls again. His eyes are empty, none of the blue left, and his jaw hangs open wide, almost split from the rest of his face. The gash in his neck oozes freely, and his limbs are bony, his skin peeling and rotting away. 

_ Impossible.  _ Noonwraiths can't— 

But Jaskier isn't a noonwraith, is he? He's cursed. 

Jaskier's form flickers, almost transparent in the dying evening light. He hovers in place for a moment, limbs twitching, and then he rushes forward, and Geralt realizes he means to attack him. 

_ Protecting his bones.  _

Geralt hates himself, but as Jaskier nears he holds out a hand and lets a burst of Aard knock the wraith back, and a quick signing of Yrden traps him in place, buying him a few more moments. He flinches as the air is filled with grating screams, and he needs to  _ fix this—  _

_ Love is the most powerful force in the world.  _

He's out of options, at this point. 

Geralt looks down at Jaskier in his arms. "I hope you have enough faith for the both of us," he murmurs, and then he leans down and presses his mouth to those cold lips in as gentle a kiss as he can manage. 

Under the cold, he tastes sweet honey wine. 

In the air, there's a pulse of static, and a wave of magical energy is released through the field. The wraith screams again, and Geralt grits his teeth against the way it scrapes against his ears, traveling over his skin like a blade. He curls instinctively over Jaskier, a surge of  _ protect him  _ burning through his veins. 

Beneath him, there is a gasp, a sharp intake of air, and his heart nearly stops. Geralt looks down, eyes wide, and stares into bright blue eyes looking back at him. Color begins to return to Jaskier's skin as well as the warmth of life, and the gash on his neck closes, not even a scar left in its wake. 

The wraith, now free of Yrden, makes one last lunge, but fades beneath the light of the moon, like a whisper trailing off on the wind. 

"Geralt?" 

Geralt closes his eyes, and lets relief wash through him, his body sagging as tension snaps and he can no longer hold himself up. 

Jaskier reaches a hand up, cupping his cheek, and Geralt leans into it, turning his head to press a firm kiss to it. 

The smile that splits those pink lips makes his heart soar. He can't help but lean down and taste them for himself again. 

Jaskier makes a noise against his mouth, but relaxes into the kiss with enthusiasm, his body warm in Geralt's arms and  _ alive  _ beneath his hands as he pulls Jaskier closer, closer,  _ closer.  _

"Never letting you go again," Geralt breathes against his lips. "Stupid to do it in the first place." 

"We can't all be geniuses," Jaskier says between kisses, and gods, it's good to hear him again, hear him full of life and joy and utter, complete  _ happiness.  _

They remain in the field for a long while, simply relearning each other, holding each other close. Geralt buries his nose in Jaskier's neck and inhales the calming scent of lavender and chamomile, no longer tainted by death. 

Blue eyes.

Pink lips. 

A soul as warm as sunlight. 

It's the sweetest thing he's ever known. 

— 

The first place Jaskier demands to go when they get back to town is to Maja. 

He's a little rough for wear, his shirt bloodstained and his pants torn, everything still a bit waterlogged, but the way he lights up as she answers her door makes him the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen. 

"Jaskier?" she says, voice trembling, and he leans heavily on Geralt and offers her the sweetest smile. 

"It's me," he says, voice thick with emotion, and she rushes to him. 

She holds him and cries, and Jaskier whispers soothing nonsense into her hair, holding her just as tight. It's emotional, and Geralt looks away to give them a moment together. Something eases in the air, and a sense of healing settles around them. 

Jaskier is exhausted though, Geralt can tell, and so must Maja, because she pulls away to compose herself and holds his face in her hands. 

"Get some rest," she tells him. Tears streak her face but her eyes shine with joy. "We can talk tomorrow." 

"Of course," he agrees, and presses a kiss to her head. "I've missed you." 

"Oh, I've missed you too, my boy," she says, and they share one last hug before Jaskier lets her go and moves back to Geralt's side. 

"I think I could sleep for a year," Jaskier says as they come to the inn. "Even though I was—" 

"Don't," Geralt says, softly, and Jaskier's mouth snaps shut. "Not tonight. Please." 

His blue eyes are soft and kind as he reaches up to cup Geralt's cheek and rest their heads together. "Not tonight," he agrees. 

Arthur is just as wide-eyed as Maja, as are the few other patrons in the tavern when they walk in. Geralt gives them all a hard look and leads Jaskier to the stairs and up to his room. 

"He gave you my room," Jaskier says, and he sounds inordinately pleased about it. "I always stayed in this one when I wasn't with Maja. Arthur nearly put my name on the door." 

It pulls a chuckle from Geralt, and he gently eases Jaskier onto the bed. He'd call for a bath, but Jaskier looks about ready to fall asleep on his feet. Tomorrow, then. 

"Sleep, Jas," he murmurs, leaning forward to press one more kiss to Jaskier's forehead. "You need it." 

"As long as you'll be here when I wake up," Jaskier says, watching as he undresses. 

Geralt meets his blue eyes. "There's not anywhere else I'd rather be." 

It's the truest thing he's ever said. 

Jaskier gives him a soft smile, and Geralt crawls into the bed next to him, wrapping himself around Jaskier and holding him close. Jaskier's breathing evens out, going slow and rhythmic, and Geralt lets himself be soothed by it. 

His dreams are blissfully, wonderfully full of only blue eyes and a sweet honey wine smile. 

— 

As promised, Jaskier plays at the Midsummer festival that year. 

Siún and Bláth put him in a stunning blue ensemble that brings out his eyes. His lute sits comfortably familiar in his hands, and his deft musician's fingers tease out songs Geralt recognizes from ten years ago, filling the air with lively energy and getting everyone to sing and dance along. 

Color has bled back into this little town, the air light and the pressing force that had settled over it gone. It'll be a while yet before they're fully back on their feet, but Geralt feels they're on the right path to it. 

As the sun sinks along the horizon, morning fading to afternoon fading to evening, Geralt finds himself pulled toward the river by Jaskier. Something that tastes like dread creeps up the back of his throat, but he pushes it away. 

He refuses to take any dark memories from this town. 

Jaskier stops them several meters from the water's edge, turning to face Geralt with a small smile. His hands are behind his back, and Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. 

"Don't look at me like that," Jaskier admonishes, but it's playful, light. His eyes shine like gems and his grin is bright. 

He shines so bright, even in the night, it takes Geralt's breath away. 

"How am I looking at you?" Geralt asks, humoring him. 

Jaskier's expression softens, going from teasing to a serious sort of fondness. "Like I'm the only thing worth looking at." 

Geralt leans forward and kisses him. He can't help it. "You are," he murmurs. 

Jaskier kisses back before gently pushing him away. "You're a sap," he says, and then he brings his arms out from behind his back. He looks down at what's in his hands. "But so am I, so I guess it's alright." 

In his hands is a lover's crown, made from the small little wildflowers in the pasture across from the grain field. Must have been where he'd disappeared earlier that afternoon, when he'd forced Geralt into a bath and said he had an errand to run. 

Watching him carefully, Jaskier backs up until he's at the water's edge, eyes still on Geralt. He turns and places the crown in the river, and they watch it float off with the gentle current, down to the bridge. 

He backs up from the bank, and Geralt meets him halfway, wrapping him in his arms and tucking his nose into his neck. 

"Third time's the charm, hm?" he asks, and Jaskier laughs, bright and warm as sunlight. 

  
  
  


The next week, Geralt leads Roach to the edge of the town, ready to leave once again. He waves to Maja and Arthur, and he tosses a coin to the stable boy for his excellent care of his horse. 

A hand slides into his, and he smiles at Jaskier beside him, the crown of wildflowers in his hair. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) for more geraskier yelling and content !

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork: My Soul Knows Sunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101979) by [idkmybffspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idkmybffspock/pseuds/idkmybffspock)




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